Duet in the Key of Failure
by Yet Another Pseudonym
Summary: Who is at fault when family is lost?  Lysandra Hawke isn't sure, but at least she can seek a second opinion.  A two-shot, if that actually makes sense. FemHawke/Fenris
1. Bethany

He'd seen her coated in layers of dust so thick she resembled a walking statue. He'd seen her drenched head to foot in pools of crimson. He'd seen her gasping for breath after too much dancing and flying with daggers, soaked and plastered and dripping wet salt. He'd seen her shaken from certainty more than once, blustering with false bravado. He'd seen her driven to the edge of snapping after days of endless dwarven babbling in the Deep Roads, the target of endless stories and jests and jibes and japes. He'd seen her shaken and trembling at the gates of Kirkwall, on her knees, head to the paving-stones in prayer.

What he had never seen was what cowered before him. He couldn't see her defiance in the masses of bloody-colored tangles that wanted to escape her scalp. He couldn't hear her sometimes excessive jocularity in the mabari-like howls that surrounded her in a haze. He couldn't even see the proud, sculpted lines of her body in the quivering ball at his feet. He couldn't see much of her at all in the flickering firelight, and the day was wrong for moonlight to add its silver glow through the ceiling cracks. Night. And no other companions rattled endless nonsense.

"What were you doing out there? Are you mad?"

Nothing. Nothing more than trembling shoulders. At least the howling stopped, thank the Maker. Still, he expected some words bristling with hostility or some sharp comment that would slice him to the bone. Or at least let her think she had.

He steeled himself for the burning and put an arm around her shoulders. He should have felt an almost infernal itching as bits of chain or small spikes embossed in leather pressed his bared bicep, but it was only as he settled her on his bench that he noticed she hadn't even bothered to put on a padded coat over her peasant dress. Nor did he feel a single weapon, though she should have at least kept a knife sheathed at her waist. She bent over her knees and shook, though he could barely hear her hitched breaths over the crackling logs in the fireplace. He took his time inspecting her as she gasped—no wounds as far as he could see. The Maker had likely been looking out for her in ways he had never bothered for Tevinter slaves.

"I had no idea wealth was so difficult to deal with. You're a strange woman, Lysandra Hawke."

She looked up, and he couldn't tell where the redness of her hair ended and her puffy eyes and cheeks began. The pitiful light from his fire didn't help, casting deep shadows beneath her eyes that briefly made his heart contort before they shifted away. No bruising, then.

"I… I'll go…" She struggled to her feet.

"Why?"

She sniffled and rubbed her swollen but dry eyes with her bare hand. No gloves, either. Then she looked at the floor for what felt like centuries, her hands clenched in front of her. She forced her breath to steady.

"I just… May I borrow one of your downstairs rooms? You won't know I'm there."

"You came all this way, risking life and limb, just to ask to borrow a room."

A weak nod.

"You could hire a room for all the gold you brought back."

"I should have figured that would be your answer. If you need me for anything, I'll be at the Hanged Man for a few hours." She adjusted her skirt and shoved down her clotted hair as best she could with a smooth, and almost practiced motion. A very _deliberate_ motion that reeked of her typical defiance.

She held herself ramrod straight and took a step toward the door. That single step heartened him more than it should have.

"You'd risk the dwarf?"

"Flames! Just what I need, more of his horrific stories."

"That he would pass on for all eternity to any who bothered to listen. His own special form of 'brooding.'"

At that, just the faintest hint of a smile flitted across her lips and was gone so quickly he wondered if he'd imagined it. He steeled himself again and steered her back toward the bench.

"You're going to tell me what's going on."

"I am, am I?" She sat under her own power. "You'll find out eventually."

He glared at her. "Not if you don't tell me."

"I… You'll just be happy it finally happened, and I can't… Not after Mother… Not after Carver…" A sudden sob choked off her words. "Not after I…"

"After you what?" He sat beside her and felt the vibrations of her heavy breaths through the bench.

"Templars…"

He swallowed. He couldn't exactly deny that she was right. "Took your sister."

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "I should have ignored Mother. I should have taken her with us. I…"

"Instead, we had that damned blood mage with us."

"…my fault…"

"It's better that Bethany is kept safe from herself and we're kept safe from her."

She affixed him with a glare that made any further words dry up in his throat.

"After she saved your sorry arse, that's the best you have to offer? Andraste's bare backside, the Hanged Man was a better choice!"

"You expected me to say something else?"

"You're not a heartless bastard, no matter how much you pretend to be one! Beth was only a threat to those who threatened _us_. Spiders. Darkspawn. Murderers. Blood mages. How often did you see her slitting her wrists? Harboring demons? Owning slaves? Maker's breath!"

"Every mage has the potential to…"

"Nonsense! Pure nonsense! Have you helped raise a mage from childhood? Have you sung her lullabies? Held her cup, fed her, dressed her? Exchanged whispered secrets and gossip with her when Mother put the lamps out? Laughed with her? Been so proud when you watched her grow, not just in power but into a beautiful, kind woman? Have you? Have you labored beside her on a farm by day? Covered for her when the Templars became a little too curious? Watched her cast her first controlled flame?"

She paused to take a breath.

"Are you through?"

"No, I'm not, and you're going to listen for once! Have you watched this beautiful young woman cry herself to sleep at night because she blames herself for Mother's grey hair? Because she thinks she's destroyed her family's happiness? Watch her condemn herself because she was born with an additional talent I wasn't? Is this fair? Is it fair that she's going to spend the rest of her life _in prison_ because her sister was too much of a wimpy idiot to stand up to her sobbing mother?"

"You seemed quite eager to send _other_ apostates to the Circle."

Her eyes narrowed, and if she'd been a mage, he'd have long since exploded into flame. She gripped at her skirt and rucked the fabric up in each hand. He shouldn't have enjoyed the glimpse of ankle and calf half as much as he did.

"Other apostates who knew nothing about life outside the Circle, or needed control that only the Circle could teach them. If you can't see a difference, I'm sure I'll never be able to explain it to you."

"The difference is that you're a hypocrite, and you can't see your own hypocrisy for your blind family ties."

She stood and made for the door. Just as she reached the stair landing, she turned. "Not every mage is Danarius. Beth never hurt you. Anders heals people free of charge. Merrill, well, I don't know about her, but I haven't exactly seen her doing crazy rituals."

The admission nearly killed him, but as she turned, the sight of her retreating back cut him deeper. "I'm sorry, Lysandra. You didn't come here to talk to me about mages."

"I… No. I don't know why I came here exactly."

"It seems like you could use a friend."

She forced a smile. "Maybe."

"I can't claim to have had much practice at it, but I can try."

Her smile this time seemed genuine, though it still seemed too weighed down for his taste. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to keep discussing mages?"

"You're sure that's wise?"

She settled on the bench next to him, close, very close. "Better mages than my heart."

"Mages, then." She returned his smile. "You have a lesson to teach me, I assume, and likely a bitter one. Something that will make me, in the words of our sage dwarven friend, 'brood.'"

"If I ever hear the word, 'brood' again from that little man, I swear, I'll… It's just as bad as hearing about his damned 'Bianca!' You worry about mages going bad, but you don't worry that the little bastard's next shout of, 'Bianca, you minx,' is going to turn me into a worse abomination than any of the demons we've faced?"

"The dwarf isn't so bad."

"Except when he is. The Maker must truly hate me to saddle me with that little…"

"You don't find me 'broody?'"

"I find you refreshingly _normal_."

"That isn't the first word I've heard most use to describe me."

"Their loss."

He stared at her and quirked his eyebrows. "I hear 'brood' or 'brooding' from every other one of your little circle multiple times a day, but you believe differently."

"Well, if you smiled all the time, you'd either be completely insane or Merrill." She grinned, though her eyes were still far too red for his taste.

"And you're sure they're not one and the same? The latter would be a fate worse than death."

A tiny laugh, but better than nothing. "Well, from what I've seen, the people who call you 'broody' aren't exactly the most stable sorts. Isabela sleeps with anything that moves. Anders is possessed, Merrill's, well, I don't know how to describe Merrill. Rainbows, butterflies, puppies, gouts of blood and demons. And look at that damned dwarf! What kind of lunatic spends hours and hours polishing and fondling a crossbow? And naming it? And writing long odes to it?"

He smiled. Or maybe it was more than a smile—he hadn't felt his lips stretch so wide, perhaps ever. "The sort of lunatic who winds up following _you_."

She stared at him, scanned him, penetrated him, and then flushed. "You should smile more often."

"I thought you didn't find me 'broody.'"

"I just… You have a beautiful smile. But maybe its rarity makes it all the more precious." She looked away. "But we were going to talk about _mages_, weren't we?"

"If that is your desire. I apologize- I haven't had much of a chance to practice my flattery. If I had, I might mention that your smile lights up the room."

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. What was that you said?" She eyed him through a clump of hair.

He had to grip the bench to keep his hand down; not being able to see the set of her lips drove him mad.

"I doubt you can hear anything through that mess. I asked you about magic."

She let loose with a throaty laugh that not only shook the bench, but his world as well. He'd heard enough laughter from mage scum at Danarius' humiliations, his torture, but never laughter for pure pleasure at something he'd said or done. She threw her head back and let her peals warm the room. When she finished and he gasped for his own air, little snorts escaped her.

"Magic, you say?"

"You have your own special form of magic, it seems."

"Is that what it is?" She smiled and chuffed. "So, mages. You asked me earlier why I helped send them to the Circle."

"I don't expect you to answer, knowing what happened to your sister. I was… insensitive, and I apologize."

"Maybe a little… All right, a lot, but it's understandable."

"Oh?" Whatever she might have to say would prove as interesting as her assertion that he was "normal." Or maybe he expected too much.

"You've seen things I can't even imagine, and you've suffered for them. All I saw growing up was a little girl cowering in terror whenever the Templars came too close. I'd never seen a demon until the day we helped you, but you must have seen them constantly, and worse."

"'Worse' is one way to put it."

She looked down at her feet as they dug into the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Why? You didn't do this to me, and as I recall, you've done more for me than anyone else has."

"I know. I just…"

"You were going to answer a question."

"I… Right. Beth was raised normally, with a family. She has experience with the world, and can face it on her own terms. Those Starkhaven mages weren't, and they couldn't. Five minutes free, and they're already consorting with demons? Feynriel doesn't know how to control his power and he needs help. I don't know where else he could find what he needs."

"You claim the difference is _stability_. I find that dubious at best. And what of the Dalish? Couldn't they have 'helped' the boy?"

"You didn't agree with me?"

"You know what I think." She shook her head, a half-smile stretching her lips. She definitely knew. "You were offered another option when it came to the boy, but you chose the Circle. Why?"

"I don't trust the Dalish, especially when it comes to demons."

"You do have some sense."

"Why, thank you." The smile widened and warmed him more than he wanted it to. "I just wish… Well, never mind what I wish."

"I agree the Gallows seems unpleasant, but the alternative is far worse. I _lived_ it."

"Is that really the only alternative? What if mages were raised with their families, and taught to control their talents properly? You know, special magic schools, or something of the sort, and if they fail, more drastic measures could be taken."

"If mages weren't so easily corrupted and their abilities were less dangerous, I might agree with you. Power is an intoxicating drug, and few can resist its effects."

"Like Beth when she surrendered. I was ready to kill every last one of the bastards, but she _protected_ us. They would have hanged all of us—me, Gamlen, Mother… Maker's breath! All I could do was let them take her away. I…"

The red was back, but nothing fell from her eyes. Her voice cracked. "Some protector I am… I'd have taken my chances with the noose if Beth had been willing to fight beside me. Better death than facing Mother's accusing eyes."

"This is why you believe you failed? I don't doubt you could kill a roomful of Templars, but would that have been wise?"

"Father kept us safe. I lack the instinct. First Carver, then Beth…"

"You blame yourself for your brother's death? He was killed by darkspawn."

"Not really, but Mother does. And now her other twin is gone. She's stuck with _me_."

"A fate worse than death, it would seem." He hoped for a hint of her defiance to return, or even a twisted smile, but she just gripped the bench, her knuckles white with effort.

"For Mother, it is. Her twins, her _precious babies_, all gone." The bitterness in her voice sounded far too much like his own.

"How long have you been providing for your family?"

"Four years now. I was nineteen when Father died."

Twenty-three, at least three years younger than he'd guessed. Far too young to shoulder such a burden, and yet she'd done it with aplomb.

"Your sister still lives."

"Is it life when she's locked away? How long until she just _breathes_ wrong, and some Templar decides to geld her mind? She's not _alive_, not really. All this Deep Roads nonsense was for nothing now."

"No, perhaps it isn't." So much for banishing the memory of her widened eyes and narrowed lips when he'd spoken of a few of Danarius' lesser humiliations. And so much for banishing the memories themselves.

The silence ate at him worse than her howls and her tears had. Her eyes never budged from her feet, which had gone as motionless as she had. Her lips remained pursed until she clenched her eyes shut, and then they went slack. Lifeless. As lifeless as he felt, unable to find even the smallest word of comfort. Not enough practice at friendship, indeed.

"Well, that was a mood-killer, wasn't it?" she said. "I suppose I should be going."

"Without weapons? What were you thinking, coming here unarmed?"

"I… don't know. I really don't know."

"You can't leave—the Maker may have looked out for you once, but he's unlikely to do it twice."

"I can run, you know." She watched him intently, but he couldn't figure out why.

"You take the bed, I'll take the bench."

"You wish me to stay? I didn't mean to intrude. I mean… thank you."

That was enough to set her in motion. She cleared off the ends of the second bench and arranged everything neatly on the dining table before he could register what she was doing. She took one of the pillows and fluffed it, then tore the coverlet off the bed and folded it into a long, narrow pad.

"What are you doing?"

"I… Listen, I'll take the bench."

"You're my guest, Lysandra. Even the most base hospitality demands…"

"I've slept on far worse things than a bench. At Ostagar, I was on the ground, and the horrid bedrolls issued to the infantry didn't keep out the Wilds' damp and chill. I've spent the last two years in a squalid room, sleeping underneath Gamlen and his alcohol-hazed snoring. The bench is a haven, believe me."

"You're not sleeping on the bench."

She laid the coverlet on top of the bench and futzed with it until it looked almost inviting. The pillow followed, and she fluffed it once more for good measure.

"Stop!"

When else would that defiant smile return? She stripped the blanket from the bed, and dragged it past him.

"Lie down," she said.

"You're not doing this. I'm perfectly capable…"

"Lie down."

"Lysandra."

"You're doing me a bigger favor than you know, and I don't have any other way to repay you…"

Did the tears really have to choose that moment to return? Much as he hated being served, he hated that sight far more.

"You don't owe me anything."

But he complied anyway. Out of his own debt or something else? The bench felt far softer than he'd imagined. How many times had she folded the coverlet over? The pillow had felt far too limp for his taste until she'd had her way with it. Now it felt like a cushion fit for a magister's pathetically tender head. She drew the blanket over him and adjusted it as he felt Thedas' most pathetic fool.

"I know you hate this, but thank you." She wiped her eyes. "I just… I'll never be able to do this again for Beth. Never."

"Get some sleep." He wished he could say something more _fitting_, something that would erase those tears.

"I'll try. Really, thank you. I couldn't stay… Couldn't let Mother see…"

"If I can say anything to make things better, tell me what it is."

She shook her head, and he knew there was nothing that could be said. Only time could ease the wound, but even time could never heal it completely. She tucked herself under the single sheet that remained and adjusted the pillow.

"Fenris?" Quiet, from beneath the sheet.

"Hm?"

"You're better at this than you think."


	2. Leandra

Andra was the toast of the town, Champion to the pathetic, soft fools who had allowed themselves to be corralled by the Qunari. A roomful of useless, power-grabbing flesh, of whom not a single one had raised a blade. Not one of them had _carried_ a blade to raise. She held her head high as they feted her from one end of Kirkwall to the other, but her defiance had vanished, replaced by a false smile that only he was able to detect. Perhaps Aveline could as well, but none of the rest of her "friends" were bothered, especially not the abomination.

The last blazing of her fire had been something to behold. She had been drenched in blood, her face dripping with intermingled salt, and the Arishok's crimson. Stray locks had escaped the confinement of her helm, and had mingled with too much of her own blood. Her leather armor had been ruined beneath the onslaught, and it had creaked with caked filth. She had panted as the blades came down and slammed into the Qunari's gut. He had choked out some nonsense about returning—perhaps they would. She had jammed the blades deeper and _twisted_. And, after, she had loosed the toe of one boot into his almost unguarded crotch.

"Fiend!" she'd hissed before the hall went wild with pent-up applause. "Barbarian!"

He still hadn't found a way to apologize to her for underestimating the Arishok's speed, the same way he hadn't for walking away, and the rest of an endless list of regrets.

"_You kicked him in the vitals."_

"_It was the least I could do. Damn him! If he hadn't been such an endlessly whiny scum-sucking arse, I'd have been able to keep Mother safe."_

"_Whiny? That wouldn't have been my first choice of words."_

"_Yes, whiny. His invasion was nothing more than a giant temper tantrum. 'Waaaah! I can't find my book, so I'll just flatten an entire city of innocents!' Look for your damned book, idiot! Don't just sit there with an invasion-grade force for years and years, expecting everything to land in your lap."_

But now, the fire was gone. He'd comforted her as best he could the night they'd lost Leandra. After the endless quiet that twisted his heart beyond recognition, she'd reached for his hand and then collapsed in his lap, clutching at it with both hands. She'd been silent, not even a shudder taking her, so unlike when she'd come to him after Bethany had been taken. He'd kept himself stock-still and had suppressed his grimace at the blazing in his palm. She'd turned her tears inward, and let them extinguish what had once blazed brighter than all of Kirkwall's foundries. She'd let them drown her, erode her. He knew that feeling far too well, but he didn't know how to help her out of it.

A year of silent tears hadn't allowed the fire to burn again. Nor had it freed her from endless obligations. She spent what time she could reading with him, though it was less and less thanks to the Hightown social whirl. She hadn't spun him through it after the first month, after he'd flinched at the constant glaring. How dare an _elf_ sully their rarified banquet halls? And how dare that same elf monopolize the Champion's attention? She'd come to him after his last party and had sputtered almost incoherently for the better part of an hour before she'd muttered, _They don't want any of you at their nonsense parties. Maker take all of their ungrateful, useless arses!_ The reading-times had dwindled to once a week, and only then did he see flashes of the old Andra. Her absence had left a larger hole in his life than he dared admit.

Tonight, she was late, uncharacteristically late; one could usually set a clock by her. The longer the wait, the faster he paced, until he found himself stalking the lower corridors of the mansion like an imprisoned mabari. He muttered endless Tevinter curses under his breath as the itching settled itself deep in his gut. The ache shot its way into his back from his arches after countless circuits of the lower hallways, as the _other_ thought embedded itself in his mind. What if she had finally decided to hate him the way she should, the way he'd half-hoped she would when he'd walked out on her?

"Enough!" The walls said nothing back.

He had his sword on his back and was out the door before his mind registered what his gut led him to. Outside, the skies had gone blacker than his mood. A few bandits would have been more than welcome, but Aveline's guards had finally made a dent in the endless thieves and villains that plagued Kirkwall. He muttered a few curses as he rounded the final corner to her estate.

"Greetings, serah," the dwarf said. "The mistress is asleep."

Did these dwarves never sleep? But Andra did constantly these days, it seemed. Days, she slept to prepare for the nighttime festivities that Hightown seemed far too fond of. Evenings, she also slept. Sometimes it was a wonder to find her awake.

"Sleeping, _again_?"

"All the time, serah. She's had a rough day of it today. Came across something of her mother's, she did."

Whatever it was that had his gut clenching finally let up.

"Tell her I called when she wakes up."

"Might I suggest that the mistress might wish for company when she awakes?"

"You want me to wait for her."

"If I might be so bold, the mistress takes great pleasure your company. It seems she might have need of a little joy."

He gave the dwarf a quick nod.

"The mistress is in her room. I trust you know the way? Of course you do."

Boy kept a watchful eye from the foot of her bed and whimpered as he approached. He patted the mabari, who received the requisite token as a noble's tribute. The dog cocked his head and whimpered.

"Yes, I'm here for her," he said, and suddenly felt far more foolish than when he'd shouted at the walls.

The dog almost seemed to nod his agreement and nudged his hip. He'd heard many tales of mabari intelligence, but he'd never fully believed them until he'd met Boy. She'd curled herself into a ball on what he still had the audacity to consider _his_ side of the bed. She seemed to guard something, though he could see little of her beyond the spill of hair that escaped the covers. Her back curved toward him.

"Andra?"

The mabari nudged him again and let out a small whine.

"Andra?" A little louder, but she didn't even shift.

The nudge became a small push.

"What do you want?" he asked the dog.

The beast angled his head toward a small portrait that had been wedged against the wardrobe. He shook his head and picked it up. Picking up portraits at a dog's request… He almost dropped it as a sudden shock jolted him. It was a smiling Bethany, decked out in the rich, ornate clothing that Andra still eschewed and Bethany herself would never get the chance to wear. But the woman's smile lit something deep within him, something he hadn't felt in close to a year. A singeing, a heat from the blaze of her spirit. Time and loss had dulled that smile when he'd first met Leandra, but the fire had lived on in her oldest daughter. Boy whined again and nosed his hip.

"I understand."

He made his way to the fireplace chair, only to find a huge paw in the middle of the seat. Boy nudged him toward the bed. He stared at the beast, and the tiny black eyes squinted slightly before a pitiful whimper cleaved the air. The dog followed it with another nudge.

"You want me to wake her."

Another whimper. He skirted the edge of the bed to the spot where he'd broken his own heart, where he'd once dressed and locked away his last chance at equality. Boy grunted and yanked his tunic.

"What do you wish of me?"

A yearning grunt, and another tug, toward the fireplace, or so he thought. He followed the dog as Boy yanked him toward _her _side of the bed. The tugging became all the more insistent as he stood at the bed's edge. He glared down at the grunting animal and watched Boy glower. Finally, after a defeated whimper, the dog jumped paws-forward, and toppled him onto the bed. Did that idiot dwarf boy know magic? Too many coincidences, and he knew far too many ties had been forged between Sandal, Bodahn and this far-too-brilliant animal. He imagined the conspiratorial meeting—the dog presiding with barks and jumps, the enchanter clapping his enormous hands, and Bodahn translating Sandal's garbled speech into language. He eased himself up against the headboard as the dog panted with what looked to be a smug smile. Perhaps he was going mad. The mabari settled into a crouch beside the bed and his dark eyes laughed.

He had not fallen easily; she shifted and her eyes opened to slits as she rolled over.

"Fen—rss," she mumbled.

He forced himself to sit ramrod straight, but she merely grabbed at his legs and snuggled up to his hips. She clutched at his legs and her breath came hot on his thigh. He swallowed as he responded and his leggings suddenly became far too tight. A fine net of hair fell over her eyes, and he focused on his urge to brush it back, rather than his growing arousal. He struggled with his gauntlets in the vain attempt to remove them without disturbing her, but she let out a long and liquid moan that lost him in his memories of her softness and warmth. One gauntlet clattered to the ground, but Boy caught the second in his teeth—was the mabari winking at him?—and set it gently on the chair. The dog followed suit with the second as he caught his breath.

If her shoulders had been bare, maybe his heart could have been mended in waking her, and if her neck had been freed of all but the pendant her mother had given her, his lips might have finally found solace. But the arm that draped across his legs was covered in her favored burgundy jacket, and its innocence jarred him, even as her soft breaths spoke a different truth. He brushed her hair back and let his hand get lost in its depths. He'd forgotten just how soft it had been in his hands, how ticklish it had been as it fell over his face when she'd rolled atop him. The seat of his leggings dampened as he forced his mind to focus on her hair, and not the slow rhythm of her warm breath. The pillow, then. She must have soaked it before she slept, and finally allowed some of the tears out.

"Andra…"

She snuggled closer, and he couldn't see the parting of her lips as she mumbled, "A dream…" But he felt them as he felt her breaths. "All a dream…"

"Andra."

"…never left… Mother never…"

She stirred and the arm that had both warmed his lap and seared him deep suddenly withdrew. She forced herself up on one elbow. "All a dream. All of it. You're here, and…"

"As long as you need me, I'm here."

She rubbed her eyes. "And you're dressed. This is a lousy dream."

"You've had dreams where I wasn't?"

"I… er…" She turned bright crimson, the color of her hair. And, unfortunately, the color of her eyes. "I could ask why you're here. In my bed."

"Let us just say it involved a dwarf and a particularly persistent mabari."

Boy pricked up his ears and whimpered.

"Who's a guilty boy, hmm? Is it you, Boy?" The cooing seemed wrong when her eyes seemed equal parts liquid and bleary. "Not that I'm complaining…"

"I could ask _you_ what happened when you…"

"Oh, Maker! I… I'm so sorry!"

"You were late. No, not late. _Missing_."

She forced herself up to sitting and promptly collapsed over bent knees. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I…"

"Yes, well, you did, and you still are."

Usually, she would snap something back. Usually, if it were, in fact, a year before, but she'd changed too much.

"Sorry," she said, her voice thick. "I…"

"Andra!"

She lifted her head, but still didn't meet his eyes.

"You think I came here for a few gasped out, 'I'm sorrys?'"

The head collapsed, and the hair fell over her face. He hadn't meant to provoke her, but he also hadn't expected her to surrender so easily. When her chest heaved and nothing but small whimpers came from her hidden lips, he stopped resisting and took her hand. The sobbing cut deep, deeper than her flying daggers might, but better the cuts than the silence. Better to flay him alive than to smother him in nothingness while her daggers rent _her_ heart to bits instead. She squeezed his hand and set it ablaze as she threw more knives into him. He forced himself not to flinch under the barrage or to melt as the searing set the rest of his markings aflame. No matter how she choked, he knew she finally purged some of the poison she'd let fester within.

She leaned against him when she finished and met his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Fenris. I even managed to forget the one thing that keeps me sane."

"I'd hardly call you sane. A year ago, perhaps, but now…"

"But now I'm but a drunken fop, just like all those idiots I used to sneer at."

"Drunken. I had no idea you'd turned into a lush."

A tiny laugh. "Did you expect me to survive the parties any other way?"

"There's plenty of lesser quality wine in my cellar." The thought of a tottering, giggling Andra tickled him far too much.

"And you never thought to offer it?"

"I might have, had I known your wishes. But why would you wish such a thing? Why the parties, if you don't enjoy them?"

"Is it not obvious?"

Maybe it was, at that. His own drunken holidays had been limited to the anniversary of his escape, but they had provided the occasional moment of solace from the endless restlessness of being _hunted_.

"And it's never occurred to you to stop drinking? To face what you've lost?"

He hadn't figured, of all the things that came out of his mouth, that the last would make her bristle, finally. "Who are you to say anything about facing _anything_ at all?"

And she was more than correct. "Andra…"

Her hair went flying as she shook her head. "You're unbelievable. Completely unbelievable."

"I suppose you don't mean that in a good way."

"It's my choice."

"One of these days you'll make sense."

"Something Aveline said. 'Take their hand,' and I've already got that, and tell them, 'My choice,' when they tell you when to move on."

He stared at her, at the mad, tousled hair that spilled as blood to her shoulders, at the green eyes, dimmed in endless red, at the swollen, reddened tip of her nose. She stared at him just as steadily despite her disheveled state, and he couldn't miss the challenge there. Of all the times for the fire to return!

"Festus bei umo canavarum," he muttered.

She didn't flinch at all. "What does that mean?"

"I'm supposed to watch you eat yourself alive because it's 'your choice?' You'll be the death of me!"

"Who are you to tell me how I can and can't grieve?" Another fair point, unfortunately.

"You blame yourself for things beyond your control, and you let it destroy you. If you truly grieved, I would say nothing."

"You claim I'm torturing myself."

"Who better? You forget who you're speaking to."

She looked down at the coverlet and then met his eyes a moment later. She even managed a tiny smile. "Who better, indeed? You're saying it isn't my fault that my family is either dead or jailed. That if I hadn't been so busy examining documents Mother's killer had gathered, she would still be dead anyway. That if I hadn't been chasing after the dead viscount's dead son, she'd still be dead."

"You can only do so much, Andra. You're not the Maker, even if you've done more than he ever has."

"If I hadn't delayed…"

"She had clearly been dead for hours before we found her. The few moments you spent investigating made no difference."

She knitted her brows. "Do you have to be so damned reasonable?"

"You still blame yourself for Bethany, don't you?"

Her grip on his hand tightened to the edge of agony, as if the burning wasn't bad enough. He forced his lips to remain impassive even as he gritted his teeth.

"You saw the portrait."

"Your dog may have had something to do with it."

A short, clipped bark was the beast's only reply.

"She looks so much like Mother did, doesn't she? Mother always loved the twins so much—Carver was the only real mix between Mother and Father, though Beth got his talent."

"Your father was an apostate?" _Magic_, even in her parentage.

"I never told you?" Oh, the false innocence in that tone! "That was Mother's engagement portrait. She ran off with Father to Ferelden instead."

"I thought he was a laborer."

"You can't be both? Apostates aren't necessarily horrible, rotten people. Father taught all of us the value of a hard day's labor, of strength, and control. How to survive when the world is against you, how to love and protect what's dearest to you… I didn't learn well enough, obviously." The last words sounded far too broken.

"Andra…" Whatever anyone else might say to such things escaped him.

"And now the single person who wanted none of this is stuck with an empty mansion and no family. What did I do wrong? The wrong Hawke survived."

"Your sister lives."

She shook her head. Yes, they'd had _that_ discussion already more than once, though his words still hadn't penetrated that stubborn skull of hers.

"You even blame yourself for not _looking_ like your mother?"

"Think of it this way, the only Hawke child who looks nothing like her lives in her ancestral home."

"No one has ever told you that you're completely insane?"

Her lips quirked just a little, and he caught a hint of the smile he hadn't seen in far too long. The same smile that blazed bright in that damned portrait. "And I suppose you're about to tell me."

"Do I _have _to? And do I have to point out the obvious?"

"And that would be?"

"You've never looked in the mirror, have you? You look just like her when you smile. You're what was most beautiful in her: her fire and her devotion. You love without judgment, and you go to the ends of Thedas for those you care for. You even do it for those you don't."

"While I let my family burn…"

"Andra, your brother chose to charge the darkspawn. Your sister chose to turn herself in. Your mother chose to help a stranger when she was unarmed."

"Mother didn't know how to fight."

"And that was a choice also. _Her _choice, not yours. You can fault yourself all you want for lacking the Maker's powers, but you can't fault yourself for their choices."

"Oh, I can. Just you watch." Her lips curved up a little further.

"I _have_ been. Stop it."

"I gather you have some advice in that direction?" She added a tiny laugh to the steadily widening smile.

"No."

"I figured the moment you stopped torturing yourself and wallowing in your past would be the moment you have the right to criticize me."

"Andra!"

"Well?" The smile twitched wider.

She toyed with him, then. "You seem a little better."

"Bodahn's tough love might have helped. You know, that little dwarf glared at me as I tottered in this morning. Then he shoved some kind of nasty dwarven bilgewater down my gullet. After that, he had me sorting through the stuff Beth had left behind so I could send it off to the Circle."

"Yes, that obviously helped a lot." He eyed the portrait.

"I've never cried for Mother."

It was his turn to squeeze her hand. "I know. I was there."

"As you always have been." His cheek burned against her lips, but this was a pleasant warmth, unlike the searing in his palm. "Thank you."

"And will be as long as you have need of me." Her forehead felt like silk against his lips. "I owe you that much."

Why couldn't he utter the words he truly wished to? He'd bound himself to her in more ways than she realized. She imagined failure where there was none, but he was failure incarnate. _I love you_, he wanted to say. _I'm sorry._ Maybe the cleansing in those words would heal him as much as he sensed she needed to hear them. And yet, his lips wouldn't move the right way. Another failure, this time of courage and heart.

"You don't owe me anything. Oh, I found you a new book when I was digging." She giggled and handed him a slim volume that had been resting almost innocently on the opposite nightstand.

"'Maferath's Maidservant's Maidenhead Went Missing'?"

"Isabela left it for Beth." Before Isabela had left them all forever and Andra holding the bag for another, far more important book. "I figure it's probably better than that Chantry rot Sebastian recommended."

He hadn't laughed with her in months. Far too many months. "You're probably right."

"You know, your reading has improved."

"No thanks to you."

"Yes, well, I'm seeing a lot of free time ahead of me. Not that Bodahn will thank me for it—he has a lot of invitations to decline."

"You've decided to stop drinking?"

"Unless you're willing to open your wine cellar to me."

"I may, but not _every_ evening."

"Damn!"

Her laughter temporarily erased the sting of his own failure.


End file.
